One snowy Jerusalem night in 1966, I went with friends to see Doctor Zhivago. Though I wasn’t a movie buff and had no thoughts of becoming a film critic, the David Lean epic stirred in me the rudiments of a film sensibility, for that was the night I became dimly aware that even the cheesiest movie can be set on fire by a natural-born star. Whether tricked out like a tart for the lover who forces himself on her, or counterpointing Omar Sharif’s dark dreamboat looks with that thick, golden braid hanging down her back, or unknowingly crossing paths with him in her Soviet-worker drab while he died of a heart attack, Julie Christie’s Lara radiated off the screen, her enormous blue eyes, determined jaw and mobile mouth prefiguring the durable but breakable women (Hamlet’s mum notwithstanding) the actress would play for the rest of her on-again, off-again career.
Christie had recently broken into British cinema, first as Tom Courtenay’s one true love in John Schlesinger’s Billy Liar, then as a calculating model in Darling, for which she won an Oscar and a not-undeserved offscreen reputation as a swinging ’60s dolly-bird hooked on drugs and men. But Zhivago made her a Hollywood star, and though her tenure barely outlasted her seven-year love affair with Warren Beatty, it set the tone for the passionate, remote yet achingly vulnerable women she went on to play: the luminous, doomed Bathsheba Everdene in Schlesinger’s Far From the Madding Crowd; George C. Scott’s married lover inRichard Lester’s Petulia; opposite Beatty, the shrewd but wistful hooker in Robert Altman’s McCabe and Mrs. Miller and a Beverly Hills hairdresser’s long-suffering girlfriend in Shampoo; and, opposite Donald Sutherland, the bereft mother in Nicolas Roeg’s Don’t Look Now, whose steamy bedroom scene holds its own in the more profligate sexual climate of today. Christie’s “chaps,” as she calls them — Beatty, Sutherland, her Madding Crowd co-star Terence Stamp and unspecified others with whom she had offscreen romances — kept her unwillingly tethered to Hollywood until the early 1970s. But she never much liked Los Angeles, and when all that was over, she couldn’t wait to break away and go home. Except for a few years living here recently in Venice with the Guardian journalist Duncan Campbell, she returns to L.A. only occasionally for small parts in mostly independent films.
That’s how she met the young actress Sarah Polley in 2001, when they co-starred in Hal Hartley’s No Such Thing. How, despite the difference in their ages, the two became fast friends. How Christie refused and refused, then reluctantly agreed to star in Polley’s lovely first feature as a director, Away From Her. And how she might just win her second Oscar come February, for playing a Canadian matron succumbing to Alzheimer’s disease.
“I hope Sarah doesn’t mind me saying this,” Christie says over tea in the lounge of the Loews Hotel in Santa Monica, “but I think you might say we developed a crush on each other. I was very flattered when she asked me to do it.” Still, she turned Polley down again and again. “I don’t like ‘sick’ films, and I didn’t want to put my life on hold yet again,” she says. When Polley threw up her hands and told Christie she was going to offer the part to someone else, she changed her mind. “I thought, ‘I cannot have someone else supplanting me in Sarah’s professional life,’ and I said yes.”
Spend half an hour with Christie, and you’ll experience her ambivalence about Hollywood and almost everything else. Plainly shy and gun-shy, the actress hates being interviewed as much as she hates speaking in public. But as luck would have it, we had met two weeks earlier at a panel discussion about Away From Her, with Christie, her genial co-star Gordon Pinsent and a preternaturally confident Polley. Only Christie looked as though she was expecting to be shot at dawn. Casual but classy in black pants, white top and an elegantly streaked mane of hair, she all but cringed when she got a standing ovation, then uneasily fielded questions while appearing poised to bolt at any moment.
One on one, she’s more relaxed and conversational, but guarded at first. Sixty-six years old and sporting no visible surgery, Christie remains a total fox in burnt-yellow cargo pants and a reddish scarf. She still has that lithe, lovely body, slim-hipped and small-breasted enough to lose her — way back in 1962 — the part of Honey Ryder in Dr. No to the more amply endowed Ursula Andress. But it’s that face, with its promise of sexual challenge, regret and despair, that directors have always loved to film in tight close-up. Watching her astonishingly ambiguous performance as Fiona, a practical homemaker and former faculty wife, a dignified woman subject to bursts of brutal honesty and quiet terror as the synapses fail to fire — and remembering her similar interpretation of a woman going mad over the loss of her child in Alan Rudolph’s Afterglow, and all her incandescent performances in between — I wonder how Christie ever got dismissed as a flibbertigibbet, even in her wild and woolly early years.
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